Owen Wister, the Virginian: a Horseman of the Plains
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__Owen Wister__ THE VIRGINIAN A Horseman of the Plains 1902 Introduction, Chapters 1-3 Illustrations from the original edition To THEODORE ROOSEVELT Some of these pages you have seen, some you have praised, one stands new - written because you blamed it; and all, my dear critic, beg leave to remind you of their author’s changeless admiration. TO THE READER1 Certain of the newspapers, when this book was first is a vanished world. No journeys, save those which announced, made a mistake most natural upon seeing the memory can take, will bring you to it now. The sub-title as it then stood, A Tale of Sundry Adventures. mountains are there, far and shining, and the sunlight, “This sounds like a historical novel,” said one of them, and the infinite earth, and the air that seems forever the meaning (I take it) a colonial romance. As it now stands, true fountain of youth, but where is the buffalo, and the title will scarce lead to such interpretation; yet none the wild antelope, and where the horseman with his the less is this book historical quite as much so as any pasturing thousands? So like its old self does the sage- colonial romance. Indeed, when you look at the root of brush seem when revisited, that you wait for the the matter, it is a colonial romance. For Wyoming horseman to appear. between 1874 and 1890 was a colony as wild as was But he will never come again. He rides in his historic Virginia one hundred years earlier. As wild, with a yesterday. You will no more see him gallop out of the scantier population, and the same primitive joys and unchanging silence than you will see Columbus on the dangers. There were, to be sure, not so many unchanging sea come sailing from Palos with his Chippendale settees. caravels. We know quite well the common understanding of And yet the horseman is still so near our day that in the term “historical novel.” Hugh Wynne exactly fits it. some chapters of this book, which were published But Silas Lapham is a novel as perfectly historical as is separate at the close of the nineteenth century, the Hugh Wynne, for it pictures an era and personifies a type. present tense was used. It is true no longer. In those It matters not that in the one we find George Washington chapters it has been changed, and verbs like “is” and and in the other none save imaginary figures; else The “have” now read “was” and “had.” Time has flowed Scarlet Letter were not historical. Nor does it matter that faster than my ink. Dr. Mitchell did not live in the time of which he wrote, What is become of the horseman, the cow-puncher, while Mr. Howells saw many Silas Laphams with his the last romantic figure upon our soil? For he was own eyes; else Uncle Tom’s Cabin were not historical. romantic. Whatever he did, he did with his might. The Any narrative which presents faithfully a day and a bread that he earned was earned hard, the wages that he generation is of necessity historical; and this one presents squandered were squandered hard, — half a year’s pay Wyoming between 1874 and 1890. sometimes gone in a night, — “blown in,” as he Had you left New York or San Francisco at ten expressed it, or “blowed in,” to be perfectly accurate. o’clock this morning, by noon the day after to-morrow Well, he will be here among us always, invisible, waiting you could step out at Cheyenne. There you would stand his chance to live and play as he would like. His wild at the heart of the world that is the subject of my picture, kind has been among us always, since the beginning: a yet you would look around you in vain for the reality. It young man with his temptations, a hero without wings. Presented by the National Humanities Center, Research Triangle Park, NC. 2005. The cow-puncher’s ungoverned hours did not unman thing true? Now to this I have the best answer in the him. If he gave his word, he kept it; Wall Street would world. Once a cow-puncher listened patiently while I have found him behind the times. Nor did he talk lewdly read him a manuscript. It concerned an event upon an to women; Newport would have thought him old- Indian reservation. “Was that the Crow reservation?” he fashioned. He and his brief epoch make a complete inquired at the finish. I told him that it was no real picture, for in themselves they were as complete as the reservation and no real event; and his face expressed pioneers of the land or the explorers of the sea. A displeasure. “Why,” he demanded, “do you waste your transition has followed the horseman of the plains; a time writing what never happened, when you know so shapeless state, a condition of men and manners as many things that did happen?” unlovely as is that moment in the year when winter is And I could no more help telling him that this was the gone and spring not come, and the face of Nature is ugly. highest compliment ever paid me than I have been able I shall not dwell upon it here. Those who have seen it to help telling you about it here! know well what I mean. Such transition was inevitable. Let us give thanks that it is but a transition, and not a CHARLESTON, S.C., March 31st, 1902 finality. Sometimes readers inquire, Did I know the Virginian? As well, I hope, as a father should know his son. And sometimes it is asked, Was such and such a THE VIRGINIAN A Horseman of the Plains Some world. His undistracted eye stayed fixed upon I. ENTER THE MAN notable sight the dissembling foe, and the gravity of his was drawing horse-expression made the matter one of high the passengers, both men and women, to the comedy. Then the rope would sail out at him, window; and therefore I rose and crossed the car but he was already elsewhere; and if horses to see what it was. I saw near the track an laugh, gayety must have abounded in that corral. enclosure, and round it some laughing men, and Sometimes the pony took a turn alone; next he inside it some whirling dust, and amid the dust had slid in a flash among his brothers, and the some horses, plunging, huddling, and dodging. whole of them like a school of playful fish They were cow ponies in a corral, and one of whipped round the corral, kicking up the fine them would not be caught, no matter who threw dust, and (I take it) roaring with laughter. the rope. We had plenty of time to watch this Through the window-glass of our Pullman the sport, for our train had stopped that the engine thud of their mischievous hoofs reached us, and might take water at the tank before it pulled us the strong, humorous curses of the cow-boys. up beside the station platform of Medicine Bow Then for the first time I noticed a man who sat [Wyoming]. We were also six hours late, and on the high gate of the corral, looking on. For he starving for entertainment. The pony in the now climbed down with the undulations of a corral was wise, and rapid of limb. Have you tiger, smooth and easy, as if his muscles flowed seen a skilful boxer watch his antagonist with a beneath his skin. The others had all visibly quiet, incessant eye? Such an eye as this did the whirled the rope, some of them even shoulder pony keep upon whatever man took the rope. high. I did not see his arm lift or move. He The man might pretend to look at the weather, appeared to hold the rope down low, by his leg. which was fine; or he might affect earnest But like a sudden snake I saw the noose go out conversation with a bystander: it was bootless. its length and fall true; and the thing was done. The pony saw through it. No feint hoodwinked As the captured pony walked in with a sweet, him. This animal was thoroughly a man of the church-door expression, our train moved slowly 2 on to the station, and a passenger remarked, out through the door at the sky and the plains; “That man knows his business.” but I did not see the antelope shining among the But the passenger’s dissertation upon roping sage-brush, nor the great sunset light of I was obliged to lose, for Medicine Bow was my Wyoming. Annoyance blinded my eyes to all station. I bade my fellow-travellers good-by, things save my grievance: I saw only a lost and descended, a stranger, into the great cattle trunk. And I was muttering half-aloud, “What a land. And here in less than ten minutes I learned forsaken hole this is!” when suddenly from news which made me feel a stranger indeed. outside on the platform came a slow voice: My baggage was lost; it had not come on my “Off to get married again? Oh, don’t!” train; it was adrift somewhere back in the two The voice was Southern and gentle and thousand miles that lay behind me. And by way drawling; and a second voice came in of comfort, the baggage-man remarked that immediate answer, cracked and querulous: passengers often got astray from their trunks, “It ain’t again.